sandbank in the hollow lane, by the great tuft of lady ferns, and
makes the sand dance reels at the bottom, day and night, all the year
round; not such a spring as either of those; but a real North country
limestone fountain, like one of those in Sicily or Greece, where the old
heathen fancied the nymphs sat cooling themselves the hot summer's day,
while the shepherds peeped at them from behind the bushes. Out of a low
cave of rock, at the foot of a limestone crag, the great fountain rose,
quelling, and bubbling, and gurgling, so clear that you could not tell
where the water ended and the air began; and ran away under the road, a
stream large enough to turn a mill; among blue geranium, and golden
globe-flower, and wild raspberry, and the bird-cherry with its tassels
of snow.

And there Grimes stopped, and looked; and Tom looked too. Tom was
wondering whether anything lived in that dark cave, and came out at
night to fly in the meadows. But Grimes was not wondering at all.
Without a word, he got off his donkey, and clambered over the low road
wall, and knelt down, and began dipping his ugly head into the
spring--and very dirty he made it.

Tom was picking the flowers as fast as he could. The Irishwoman helped
him, and showed him how to tie them up; and a very pretty nosegay they
had made between them. But when he saw Grimes actually wash, he stopped,
quite astonished; and when Grimes had finished, and began shaking his
ears to dry them, he said:

"Why, master, I never saw you do that before."

"Nor will again, most likely. 'Twasn't for cleanliness I did it, but for
coolness. I'd be ashamed to want washing every week or so, like any
smutty collier lad."

"I wish I might go and dip my head in," said poor little Tom. "It must
be as good as putting it under the town-pump; and there is no beadle
here to drive a chap away."

"Thou come along," said Grimes; "what dost want with washing thyself?
Thou did not drink half a gallon of beer last night, like me."

"I don't care for you," said naughty Tom, and ran down to the stream,
and began washing his face.

Grimes was very sulky, because the woman preferred Tom's company to his;
so he dashed at him with horrid words, and tore him up from his knees,
and began beating him. But Tom was accustomed to that, and got his head
safe between Mr. Grimes' legs, and kicked his shins with all his might.

"Are you not ashamed of yourself, Thomas Grimes?" cried the Irishwoman
over the